Candles…nice touch, she thought.
“I want you to take control—or try, anyway.” Esme turned to face her suitor, her tone—and the look in her eyes—a challenge.
Still he hesitated. Esme sighed, taking matters into her own hands and working to get his breeches off. Still he made no move to help, just reaching out to touch her face again.
Soon he stood in only his ruffled shirt, silent, much of his expression still concealed behind his golden half-mask.
Esme grew impatient, handing him the riding crop and turning to lean over the bed.
“Start easy—but not too easy,” she demanded.
He stood behind her, silent.
“Please,” she said, her voice husky now, anticipation making her wet. Being forced to beg him was such a turn-on, helping her suppress her inner control freak so her other inner freak could come out to play…
He flicked the leather popper against her left cheek. Esme’s eyes narrowed in disappointment. She glanced over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow. “Oh, puh-lease… Like you mean it, now.”
Esme watched him shift his weight. She let her body go limp over the bed, closing her eyes, waiting. This time, she felt his strength behind the controlled flick of the whip, the leather popper meeting its mark, that sweet pain sending adrenaline rushing through her system in synergy with the pleasure fuelling a slow burn between her legs. Esme started moaning. He caressed her other cheek with his free hand as he brought the crop down again, then he slid his fingers, tentative at first, then sure, into her wet cunt.
The first orgasm left her gasping. Esme pushed herself up from the bed, but he moved quicker, spinning her to face him now, flexing rock-hard biceps to pull her against his chest—his mouth so close to hers. Esme felt his heated breath between her own parted lips—then he threw her down again, onto her back on the feather-filled mattress.
Esme scrambled up, pushing him down instead, the mattress sinking under his weight. Esme straddled his legs, the coarse dark hairs that covered his thighs teasing her pussy lips, sending electric jolts of pleasure to her engorging clit. His eyes widened at her strength, his mouth curving into a faint smile, yet he offered no resistance, lost in the scent and sensations of her moist cunt rubbing his thighs. He stroked his fingertips along her taut abs, encircling her well-toned biceps with his broad palms as if he fondled something novel, unfamiliar—entirely intoxicating.
“I want to ride,” she murmured, distracted by his eyes—they shaded from that striking aquamarine to a deeper cobalt blue, his golden mask emphasising their brilliant colour. Esme looked away, swept up in a passion she fast lost control over, mesmerised by the lust in his eyes mixed with some other emotion—was he infatuated with her? Not cool for a one-time rendezvous, she thought. Still…Esme ran her hands across his belly and down the length of his rock-hard cock, the ache in her pussy begging for release, pushing any other concern away.
Esme straddled his hips, running one finger along the ridge of his cock, his hard length hers for the taking, sliding ever so slowly down each substantial inch of him as she took him inside her. He sat up, the heavy muscles across his torso straining as he supported them both, those magnificent biceps flexing again as he took her face in his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes while she rocked her hips back and forth, her rhythm deliberate, driving them both to the brink.
“Make me come,” she moaned.
He lost control, falling back to the bed, the spasms from her tight walls squeezing him dry, his hot cum filling her up, spilling out over them both into the damp, twisted sheets.
In spite of herself, Esme reached up to remove his mask, but her hands shook, vertigo washing over her again. The last thing she remembered, he was leaning over her, touching her face again in that intimate gesture. Esme protested, then capitulated, surrendering to his caress, his touch soothing her as she sank into some dreamless place.
Chapter Two
An acrid stench of unwashed bodies mingled with low-grade tobacco and even cheaper alcohol assaulted Esme’s nostrils. The smell, wafting through the open window, carried on the cacophony of voices rising from two storeys below.
“Party moved to the street, huh?” Esme mumbled, wincing, pain shooting through her muddled brain. She lifted the first item of clothing she reached—his ruffled shirt—and slipped its voluminous length over her head. She sat up, willing the room to stop its riotous spinning, and walked unsteadily to poke her head out of the window and watch her friends below. The effort proved too much—Esme vomited, the contents of her stomach splattering a couple of party-goers below.
“Watch yerself, you stupid tart!” the woman yelled, shaking her fist. Her hair, a rat’s nest of tangled knots twisting around her lined face, a perfect frame for the dirt streaking her coarse features. Esme’s eyes widened—the woman sported several missing front teeth. Esme noted the few she still had displayed various states of decay, evident even in the dim light from the windows below.
Busy groping her breasts, the woman’s companion paid no heed to the mess even as his left boot landed square in the centre of a small puddle. Esme was uncertain if that puddle was her vomit or someone else’s muck, filling the dips and holes in the cobblestones paving each side of the filthy street.
“When I get slapped with a citation for disturbing the peace, heads will roll,” Esme muttered, collapsing onto the tufted stool in front of the vanity, wondering what this ‘authentic’ masked ball would cost her.
She tipped her head to one side. Was the poor lighting playing tricks? She ran her fingers along the ornate scroll-work. The familiar lip of the vanity she used in her own bedroom was out of place here. With a practiced eye, Esme examined the item further—the condition of the wood, almost pristine, belied its age. She pulled open the lone thin drawer, rubbing her finger across its bottom surface, searching for the scorched indentation left by a curling iron someone had left plugged in prior to Esme acquiring the piece. Nothing.
Esme, nauseous again, looked at her reflection. The slight distortions in the visage staring back at her were characteristic of the original glass in the heirloom vanity. Esme spread her fingers across the surface, recalling how she and Timone had removed the few remaining pieces of the original, broken glass, deciding—with great reluctance—to upgrade it with contemporary materials, meshing the heirloom with modern utility.
Esme stood up, shaking, that vertigo overwhelming her again.
He caught her before she hit the floor.
* * * *
“So, Logan, here you sit with a delectable piece at long last. I tip my hat.” Byron lifted his devil-horns mask. Conscious of the prostitute he had left just outside the door—which was standing ajar—he switched to French. “I rather assumed I would find you again sitting in the dark, fondling that locket you carry, mooning over the fair portrait within.”
“Look at her, George,” Logan murmured in the same language, his voice soft, not wishing to disturb the slumber of the woman resting in his arms.
Byron responded in his typical, booming voice, paying no heed to the dark scowl Logan shot him as Esme stirred. “The woman in the portrait!” he exclaimed. He rubbed his chin, considering what the night’s mad festivities had summoned—and from where?
Esme half-opened one eye. “Who are you?” she asked Byron, her perfect French an effortless flow from her lips. She turned her face sleepily into the warmth and breadth of Logan’s chest, continuing to murmur. He tightened his embrace, scowling at his friend again.
Byron raised one eyebrow at the scene. “What’s that she says?” He leaned closer, straining to hear Esme’s faint mutterings.
Logan shrugged, rubbing the slight crease furrowing his brows. “She speaks of the twenty-first century, as one familiar. And there are these.” He slipped a couple of the Möbius bracelets from Esme’s wrist, handing one to Byron. Then he passed him the locket. “And there is this as well.”
Byron’s eyebrows met his hairline this time. “Your mother did
predict your heart’s desire would come from afar,” he mused. Byron studied the second item Logan had handed to him, staring at the likeness of his friend nestled inside, then spied the second locket still hanging open around Esme’s neck. “God’s teeth, Logan.” He goggled at the likeness of his friend nestled inside. “She wears the twin of your mother’s locket.”
Logan nodded. “I was sleeping in that chair, deep in my cups, waiting for you to finish your sport. I woke to find her here. I thought I was dreaming, the drink still clouding my mind.” He fell silent, at a loss to further clarify the night’s strange events.
Watching the confusion shadowing his friend’s face, Byron sprang to action. “I will call for a carriage, unless you plan to return to the house carrying her on horseback.” Byron always took charge, and he was right—whatever secrets this woman harboured were best explored in the relative privacy of Logan’s country estate, not here in the local brothel.
Esme woke in unfamiliar clothes to the lurch of a carriage. Two men watched her. She caught her breath, searching Logan’s face now he had removed his mask…the face she had woken to every day for the past two months. Her ‘Lord of the Locket’.
Several minutes passed in silence.
Esme’s gaze lingered on the tall figure seated across from her, sweeping across Logan’s face; she recognised the incredulous disbelief she felt rising from the pit of her churning belly reflected in the questions clouding his aquamarine eyes.
“Impossible,” she muttered.
The silence stretched on, neither man uttering a word.
“Wh—wh—what year is this?” she finally managed, her voice raspy.
Byron tipped his head. “Allow me to introduce myself. George Gordon, Lord Byron. I believe you made the…acquaintance…of Lord Davenport last night. Those of us who are more…familiar…address him as Logan.”
Esme blushed, watching a knowing smile lift Byron’s lips as a scowl twisted Logan’s, his scent and hers unmistakable on each other’s skin in the close seating. “What year?” Esme held on to a thin shred of reason—surely Charisse had carried this ruse too far.
Byron reached out one gloved hand. “1814.”
“Stop the carriage.” Esme stumbled out, not waiting for either man, retching.
When she had finished, Logan handed her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, both men studiously ignoring the mess she had left by the side of the road.
“Not…not possible.”
“Yet here you are,” Byron said, his voice low, soothing.
“How did you acquire your necklace?” Logan demanded, the jab to his ribs from Byron reminding Esme of a couple of prepubescent schoolboys.
Esme scowled at both men. “From a chest buried in the cellar of my Boston offices. The foundations required some structural work. One of the workers found it.”
“Boston, Massachusetts,” Byron stated, meeting Logan’s gaze.
“Yes. About two hundred years from now,” Esme replied.
Esme leant back in her seat, crossing her arms, her chin jutting out. Damn this dress, she thought, kicking at the skirts with one foot. Staring out of the carriage window, she ignored the men sitting across from her, thoughts of her hands around Charisse’s throat affording Esme some welcome comfort.
When the carriage halted for a short break, Esme flung open the door, ignoring Logan’s outstretched hand and walking away from the two men.
Byron shook his head, watching Esme wrestle with her skirts while she distanced herself from the carriage. “What will you tell her of your mother’s locket?”
Logan shook his head. “Nothing, yet.”
Byron perked up. “Perhaps these final days in the countryside with your guests will prove less tiresome than I envisioned.”
Esme looked around as the carriage pulled up to a mansion, vast gardens surrounding the main house, cottages dotting the landscape as far as her eye could see. She saw horses—lots of horses—roaming the grounds in the distance. Her heart sank. Somehow, this was real…
OMG, she thought…I’ve landed in a Jane Austen novel.
Logan stepped from the carriage, offering Esme his hand, surprised when she let her gloved fingers linger on his arm. Byron lifted one eyebrow, saying nothing, his smile wide when several of Logan’s house guests approached the trio as they entered the parlour.
“Ah, Lord Davenport, we missed your company at breakfast this morning. I understand you and Lord Byron had unforeseen business prompting your early departure from the masque last evening?” One of Logan’s houseguests, Lady Ashford, stepped forward, her hard glance moving across Esme’s form from her toes to her dishevelled hair and back again.
Logan started to reply—though he was at a loss for how to explain Esme’s…abrupt appearance to these insufferable busybodies—but Byron interjected.
“Lady Ashford, Lord Davenport learnt late yesterday, in an urgent correspondence from his American solicitors, that a former ward of his dear late father had arrived in Davenshire, alone and without proper escort.”
Logan, bemused and exhausted from the night’s strange events, considered telling the truth, disclosing to the old crone that Byron, seeking more earthly amusements than Logan’s guests inspired, had spirited him away in the middle of the masque to the closest brothel, but Byron’s tight grip on his forearm reminded him to say naught.
Logan watched Esme’s face as she struggled to absorb her surroundings. In spite of his own confusion, he suppressed a smile, seeing Esme’s fair skin turn a whiter shade of pale. Clearly, none of this was the norm in her reality…
But what reality? How had she got here? Why?
“Mademoiselle perhaps would enjoy some tea after her arduous journey,” Byron suggested.
Logan turned his attention back to Esme, dismayed to see tears threatening under her downcast eyes, torn between an overwhelming desire to crush her to him, to protect her from these gossips and snipes, and his well-bred desire to avoid a public scene in his own parlour.
Esme removed her elbow from Logan’s tight grip. “Yes, tea sounds…lovely.” Esme winced, feeling like a newbie actress from the original Masterpiece Theatre series who had failed to memorise her lines. “Earl Grey, please.”
Lady Ashford and Lord Byron fell silent. Esme saw that crease appearing between Logan’s eyebrows. She racked her brain…
Oh, screw it. England in 1814 comprised Charisse’s area of expertise, not hers.
Again Byron filled the tense silence. “Perhaps Earl Grey serves a familiar blend when business takes him to…Boston?”
Logan took Esme’s arm, exerting enough pressure to let her know he intended to retain his grasp this time. “We take our leave, Lady Ashford.”
“Logan, I swear, in twenty or thirty years you’ll be drinking Earl Grey’s tea, too,” Esme insisted, wincing as Logan tightened his grip.
He leant down to mutter into her ear. “Be not so informal in polite company, Miss Tyme.”
Shocked at hearing him murmur her name—How did he know?—Esme hesitated, then lifted her skirts, walking fast now to catch up with Logan’s long strides. She looked back to where Byron was working his charm to divert Lady Ashford’s attention from the couple, to no avail.
Byron clicked his tongue. “Poor dear, perhaps the change in climate…”
Lady Ashford raised one brow. “Perhaps, Lord Byron.”
“Sit down, Miss Tyme.”
Esme perched on a stiff chair in Logan’s library, a servant materialising in silence with a tea service.
Esme frowned at the formal address. “My name is Esme. Esme Tyme.”
Logan scowled down at her, waving the woman away, pouring the tea himself into cups decorated with sprigs of lavender. “I know.” He pulled up a sleeve, revealing a silicone Möbius bracelet on one wrist. “A gentleman does not address a lady in so familiar a way.”
When Esme accepted the cup he handed her, his long fingers touching her slim ones, Logan became aware of how his own broad palm engulfed the thi
n china, remembering how that hand had felt between this woman’s legs… Logan’s gaze caught Esme’s and he watched her shiver, knowing she shared his thoughts. Familiar, indeed…Logan reached out to push a lock of her hair back into place, startling himself with this gentle touch. Before Esme could respond, he turned on one heel, heading back into the hallway they had just vacated.
“I think it would be best if you retired to your chamber until the evening festivities commence. Betsy will attend you.” Logan signalled to yet another maid standing just outside the door.
A maid for every lady… Esme felt the tears threatening again and pushed them back. “Of course,” she answered. “As you wish, Lord Davenport.”
Logan hesitated, that furrow reappearing between his brows at her tone, then left, slamming the door behind him.
Esme tried to rest, but the task proved impossible. She paced in her bedchamber, turning over the events since the launch party, finally sinking down on a bench, exhausted.
At least I can find out more about my…host, she told herself.
On cue, Betsy tapped at her door. “I’m here to attend to you for the ball, Miss.”
Another fucking ball. Esme grimaced.
Noting the maid’s curious stare, Esme forced herself to smile as Betsy poured tea for her.
Recovering her composure, Esme sipped at her tea. “Tell me about Lord Davenport.”
Betsy smiled back, happy to oblige—Esme was by no means the first guest here this week to ply the ladies’ maids with sweet smiles—and perhaps coins—to learn useful secrets about the enigmatic and eminently marriageable Lord Davenport, secrets his family’s servants were sure to know.
“Tell me more about his parents. Such an…intriguing story.” Esme held her breath, praying something, perhaps, was intriguing enough to cover her shot in the dark.
Watching a smile light up Betsy’s face, Esme let her breath out. Betsy reached for the silver-backed hairbrush, obviously happy to oblige her lady by attending to Esme’s hair in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. Esme protested, then forced herself to relax under Betsy’s ministrations when she saw the confused look on the woman’s face.
Bending Tyme Page 2